


Identity

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s almost reassuring, to have the absolute certainty of the flower in his hand to back up this awareness: that he is in love, that it is with Koutarou, and that any hope of reciprocation is futile." Hayato takes resignation well. Koutarou does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glueskin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/gifts).



The first time is in the rain.

Hayato is still staring at Koutarou’s retreating back, blinking shock at the miserable hunch of the other’s shoulders, at the barrier for Koutarou to hold his unhappiness jealously close without letting Hayato even make an offer to take the weight. There’s paper scattered at Hayato’s feet, club resignation notes going damp and heavy with the cascade of water from the sky, but Hayato doesn’t move to pick them up; he’s frozen where he stands, his heart pounding in his chest while he watches Koutarou walk away and feels like he’s forgotten how to move, like he’s forgotten even how to blink. There’s something painful behind his ribcage, an ache a little like guilt and more like realization, the shape of an epiphany starting to form itself from the adrenaline cresting heat into his veins. He doesn’t think about the rain, doesn’t move out of it even after Koutarou has turned the corner and vanished from sight; it’s not until Hayato feels his throat go tight with the need to cough that he realizes he’s soaked through, that the risk of a cold presents itself to the stunned echo of his thoughts. He lifts a hand to his mouth, coughs hard against the tickle in his throat -- and something catches at the back of his tongue and topples through his mouth to land against his palm. Hayato blinks at it, too confused to even be concerned at the fragment of blue in his hand; it’s not until the rain splashes against it that he realizes what it is.

A flower petal.

He didn’t need the confirmation, not really. He knows what it is unfurling itself in his chest like long-forgotten knowledge rising to the forefront of his thoughts, like a memory forming itself as if he has ever known this before, as if being in love with Sasaki Koutarou has been a permanent part of him that he is only just remembering. It’s almost reassuring, to have the absolute certainty of the flower in his hand to back up this awareness: that he is in love, that it is with Koutarou, and that any hope of reciprocation is futile.

 

It’s not as inconvenient an affliction as it might have been. Hayato has heard stories about people who coughed hemlock or foxglove to poison themselves on their own unrequited love, or those who choked on such a rush of petals that they couldn’t get air to breathe. They’re all secondhand, certainly rumors and likely apocryphal, but it’s a relief to find that his own case seems far less severe than it could be. The fits of coughing are limited to the evenings, mostly; it’s only occasionally that he has to step out of class or retreat from the field in the middle of practice. And they’re minimal in volume, too, just a handful of petals or a few blossoms before his throat relaxes and he can return to his near-ordinary life.

He identifies his flowers after the first week. The violets are easy, simple to recognize as soon as he catches a whole flower tumbling from his lips, and the saturated blue of the petals makes them a sign for faithfulness that Hayato knows without bothering to look it up. The others are his more common affliction but harder to name; after some research and a few fits of coughing he places the cupped blossoms as Canterbury bells, in a lighter shade of the same rainwater blue his violets are. Their meaning makes him smile when he finds it, makes him glance up to the football uniform on his wall that he won’t be able to wear in an official match for another dozen weeks, yet.

It seems only appropriate that he should be making evidence of his constancy in this way too.

 

There are times when Hayato thinks it’s easier knowing that his case is hopeless. If there were even a dream of reciprocation he knows he would pine for it, would cling to the frail shape of possibility without the willpower to run the risk of confessing and facing the end game of a rejection. From that perspective Koutarou’s persistent confessions to Julie are a boon more than a cause of suffering; Hayato can build himself a wall of resignation out of the bricks of Koutarou’s pleas for a date, can let the taste of petals on the back of his tongue guide the notes from the guitar under his fingers while he listens to Julie refuse with the same absolute negative she always gives.

“Please, Julie,” Koutarou begs, his voice swinging into the desperate range that reminds Hayato of the feel of rain on his skin, of the flutter of white paper falling like snow around him. “Just for coffee, just for an hour!”

“How many times do I have to tell you no?” Julie sighs, and Hayato’s fingers ache on guitar strings, and his throat burns with the desire to cough.

 

Once he nearly gets caught. The waves of coughing are usually predictable, but he always needs a few minutes after a game to clear his throat of blue petals and find sufficient composure to offer to Koutarou’s bright-eyed joy. The away game early in their third year is a resounding success, another piece of evidence to add to Koutarou’s continued dedication to the strategy of their kick team, and it happens on a field that has a bare handful of bathroom stalls and far more attendees than originally expected. Hayato is left to find an empty spot behind the bleachers to cough flower after flower into his hands, each time expecting it to be the last before he remembers the arc of Koutarou’s kick, and the resonance of Koutarou’s yell of victory, and feels his composure dissolve into another round of coughing.

He’s nearly under control, is scattering flowers at his feet, when: “Akaba!” comes from behind him, and he turns too fast to pull his expression into anything but telltale surprise at being caught. Koutarou is almost atop him, absent his helmet but still wearing the clinging fabric of his uniform, and Hayato doesn’t have time to do anything but step backwards without looking to cover the fallen petals with his feet.

“That was amazing,” Koutarou tells him as he draws to a stop, his hair flyaway from his headlong rush and his eyes sparkling as bright as his smile. His eyelashes are very dark, lying in a feathery spread across his sharp cheekbones; Hayato can feel his throat spasm and barely fights back the cough that tries to force itself out of his chest. “We’re really showing everyone the power of a kick team this year!”

Hayato smiles without having to think about it. He’s sure his eyes are softer than they should be, is sure Koutarou won’t notice any more than he’s ever noticed before. “We are.”

“It’s fantastic,” Koutarou says, sparkling enthusiasm so brightly Hayato can see sunlight glowing into a halo around him and collecting in his eyes like it’s coming home to stay. He reaches out, claps a hand warm against Hayato’s shoulder, and Hayato chokes on his cough and brings a hand up to cover his mouth as a weight falls over his tongue.

“We’re all taking a picture together,” Koutarou tells him; then, with his smile fading as he sees the strain in Hayato’s face: “You okay?”

Hayato nods, keeping his hand in front of his mouth. “Something in my throat,” he says, speaking as clearly as he can around the flower caught between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

“As long as you’re not getting sick,” Koutarou says, pulling at Hayato’s shoulder to urge him away. Hayato ducks his head, coughs hard into the catch of his hand, and he’s just closing his fingers around the telltale flower when Koutarou glances behind them and says, “Woah, did someone leave a bouquet here or something?”

“Ah,” Hayato says. “Yeah, must be.”

He waits until Koutarou’s looking away to uncurl his fingers and drop the violet to fall unseen in their wake.

 

“One date won’t solve the problem,” Julie says, loud enough that Hayato can make out the words clearly even through the closed door of the team clubhouse. “You don’t even know it’s me it’s about.”

“No one else makes any sense,” Koutarou protests, his voice skidding out on emotion. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, Julie!”

Hayato can taste violets on his tongue. He picks up his guitar and goes to find another place to compose.

 

They graduate in the rain. Hayato is sure many of his classmates are disappointed by the overcast sky awaiting them in the school courtyard; it’s not in keeping with the picture-perfect graduation expectations to have the cherry blossoms weighted by rain instead of standing bright against the clear blue of a springtime sky. It makes Hayato smile and draw his mist-hazed sunglasses off so he can turn his face up to the wet; the nostalgia the weather invokes feels right, the bittersweet of the memory so strong he can almost hear Koutarou’s voice go anguished on accusation again. The sound of his name comes as an overlay to the recollection, the voice calmer but no less familiar, and when Hayato turns it’s to find Koutarou standing behind him with the weight of his diploma inside its storage container gripped tight in his hand and his jaw set as if for some painful but necessary task.

“Koutarou,” Hayato says, waiting for the usual prickle of sensation at the back of his still-clear throat. “Congratulations.”

Koutarou extends a hand. The motion is so abrupt that for a moment Hayato thinks it’s the odd formality of a handshake; then he sees what Koutarou is holding, the narrow stem attached to feathery tufts of tiny grass flowers, and confusion overrides expectation to wipe his thoughts blank of understanding.

“I’ve been coughing these up since last year,” Koutarou says with no preamble. Hayato sucks in a breath in involuntary, telltale reaction, but Koutarou doesn’t pause to wait for a response; he’s talking fast, rushing through his words in the way he does when he’s trying to make a point before someone else beats him to it. “Julie had to help me figure out what it is. It’s canary grass, it stands for perseverance.” He takes a breath, a deep one, one Hayato can see tense in his shoulders, and goes on talking. “I thought it was about Julie. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and I used to ask her out once a year or so. I thought it was telling me I should keep trying, that I shouldn’t give up. She kept saying she wasn’t interested, that her going out with me out of pity wasn’t going to be enough to solve the problem, and then she started to say maybe it wasn’t about her at all.” Koutarou’s fingers tighten; Hayato can see the stem of the plant crush under his hold and tilt sideways as it is borne down by the weight of its feathery top, but Koutarou doesn’t seem to notice.

“So I looked up canary grass again.” Koutarou’s voice is trembling, thrumming over the sound of the words; Hayato can hear the emotion under them, like an echo of the last time they faced off like this with sheets of paper between them instead of the downy tufts of blooming grass. “And Julie was right. Canary grass does stand for perseverance, but it’s also a type of reed.” Koutarou’s hand is starting to shake. The plant is trembling with the movement. Hayato can’t breathe. “Do you know what reeds stand for?”

Hayato stares at the grass in Koutarou’s grip, at the soft top of it that gives him the answer he looked up long ago, back when his interest in flowers was purely academic and not personal. His heart is stuttering in his chest, beating out a drumbeat rhythm against his ribs, and he can’t speak.

“They stand for _music_ ,” Koutarou chokes out. “It hasn’t been Julie. It was _never_ Julie.” The reed crumples in his hand, the stem giving way completely; Koutarou lets it fall, lets his hand fall limp at his side. “I’ve been an idiot.”

Hayato’s throat is aching. There’s a knot at the back of his tongue, pressure as if he needs to cough. He knows there’s nothing there now, nothing except for the weight of years’ worth of emotion.

“I’ll be smart about things, after this,” Koutarou is saying, still staring at Hayato with his eyes as dark on intensity as if he’s angry, as if the tears starting to threaten against the weight of his lashes are from fury and not from the expectation of heartbreak. “But I figured if anyone would understand sentimentality you would.” He takes a breath and lets it out in a rush of air like he’s bracing himself for a blow. “Akaba Hayato, I’m in love with you. Will you go out with me?”

Hayato’s throat is closing up on itself. It’s hard to breathe past the restriction, harder still to speak; when he manages to say “Koutarou” it’s in such a raw, desperate tone that Koutarou’s eyes go wide with sudden concern. Hayato’s hands are full with the handle of his guitar case and the case for his diploma; it’s the cylinder he lets fall, dropping the weight of it to the rain-damp ground as he steps in so he can reach for the soft of Koutarou’s hair. Koutarou’s staring shock at him, his lips parted on disbelief; Hayato can see the damp of the rain at his eyelashes, can hear the rush of air spill from the other’s throat as Hayato leans in to kiss him.

Koutarou’s mouth against his is as soft as flower petals.


End file.
